It's All About Perspective
by Vangoghgurrl
Summary: This is a token of thanks to you fabulous Naomily writers.


**A/N: **As you will see after reading this, I am not a writer. I paint and I draw, but not so much with the writing. My appreciation for writing and writers knows no bounds, however. I have been mesmerized by some of the stories on here. I have literally almost pissed myself laughing, cried my eyes out, screamed in happiness and rage, and gotten more than a little "randy" from contributions by you fabulous people and your words...Oh, your words. Because of this, I wanted to give you a gift. It's a shoddy gift wrapped in funny pages, and seriously lacking a bow. But it's a gift none the less. I can give you words because it's what you understand. I give you words because it is what you give me. I offer this to you with a truly heartfelt thanks for sharing you breathtaking imaginations with me. So, niceoneBlondie, Blue-Eyed-Blonde90, LoveActually, Hyperfitched, ImagineAlex, lazyboo, FitchSwitch, AssassinsLover, mau5, Faithsky, Pinkbanana2, esdiferente, darthcaiter, Ladyhawke1709, RuinMyLife, Peppersister, , and the others of you that are writing these amazing things that have kept me from reading books on paper (I do miss the smell and the feel of the pages sometimes)- this is my thank you.

I do not own Skins or any Skins characters, but Emily Fitch owns my ass fo' sho'

It's All About Perspective

The large wrought iron door handle was cold in my hand as I stopped to look up at the facade of what I imagine was once a beauty of a church. No one ever looks up. Don't people realize they miss half of the world by only looking down or at what's directly ahead of them? I'm here, at this place again, because I looked up. I looked up from the from watching the water run through the little grooves in the marble bar top. Looked up from the pyramid of plastic shot cups containing the dregs of the somewhat vile, but also somehow delicious "vampire's kiss" shot that The Castle was famous for. I looked up and saw her for the first time. Through the haze of cheap alcohol and clove cigarette smoke- I looked up and saw her. Up. Up pretty fucking high, actually. She was dancing on this black wooden box thing five feet above the already high stage. Dancing. Dancing to the slow beat of a fast song. God, that's fucking hot. The music was pounding hard. VNV Nation's "Kingdom". I'll never forget that song as long as I live. Watching her find her own slow and seductive rhythm in the midst of that chaotic beat. I was transfixed. I forgot who I was with; hell, I forgot who I WAS. Her flaming red hair slithered around her shoulders as she moved. I lost the ability to breathe as her arms swayed above her, every so often coming down to run her hands through her hair, or to run her hands down her arms and across her stomach. I stared. I admit it. I stared hard. I don't know how she didn't feel the weight of my stare. Maybe she did, because it wasn't long after that thought ran through my head that she locked eyes with me and smirked. She smirked at me, and then she disappeared behind the box. Exit, stage left.

So here I am, again. Standing with the handle of the arched wooden door in hand. Looking up. I gather my self together and open the door. Instantly the sweet smell of cloves fills my nose. Cloves, and that cold fog machine club smell. Do you know that smell I'm talking about? No? Well, fuck you. This place smells exactly like that to me. I have a candle that smells like that. It's a square purple taper candle that I refuse to burn it because I don't want the smell to change. I'm weird. I know. Moving on. I walk up the bar, nod and smile at Effy the bartender, placing $10 on the bar. Effy and I have chatted a bit since I started stalking, I mean watching the show. Now that my drinks are handled for the evening, I sit on a stool with my back to the bar and wait. This is what I do. This is what my life has become. Every Saturday night for the past two months I sit on this stool, drink shitty yet still yummy shots, and watch her dance. I wonder what she'll wear tonight? Last week she had on the tiniest pair of shorts ever made, with suspenders covering the part of her breasts that would get her arrested for indecent exposure. Oh, and the little electrical tape Xs under the suspenders. Can't forget about those. I wonder who put them on? I wonder who took them off? I hate whoever that person is. Unless she does it herself, then I love them. Wait, what? Fuck. Ignore me. I do.

I take in the cliche red velvet couches placed randomly around the edges of the dance floor. The large TVs hanging from the ceiling are flashing the ever imaginative "vampires through the age of cinema" stills one finds at every other goth club in the world. I watch the black clad bodies swarm and sway together as the first few notes of Depeche Mode's "It's No Good" start blasting through the sound system. I concentrate on the place where I know she will pop up at any moment. Glint of red. There she is. She climbs up what I assume to be a ladder on the far side of the stupid box that let's her disappear every freaking time. I wonder where she goes? Stop thinking. It's time to watch. It's why I am here. I come here to watch her. I know she knows I am here. Effy joked about it once. She told me her name is Emily, but I refer to her as "red girl" in my mind. Red is now my favorite color. Anyway, I'm thinking again. I don't want to think, I want to watch. She's found her rhythm.

"Don't say you want me

Don't say you need me

Don't say you love me

It's understood

Don't say you're happy

out there without me

I know you can't be

Cause it's no good"

I love this song. Hrm, she is looking at me a lot tonight. Normally she just glances and smirks and then glances away. She seems a bit more focused on me. I watch her tattoos writhe with her movements. Every time I stare at her tattoos, I touch the ones on the inside of my wrists. I wonder if hers feel different then mine. I wonder if I'll ever find out? I watch the light bounce off her labret piercing while I use the tip of my tongue to flip my snake bites from side to side. I wonder if her piercing would get caught in my piercings if I kissed her? I wonder if I'll ever find out? She is _really_ focused on me. She hasn't turned like she normally does. She is dancing directly facing me. I vaguely hear Effy chuckle behind me, but there is no way I am turning away from her to ask the bitch what she's laughing at. I can literally feel her eyes on me. I wonder if my skin is actually smoking, because it surely feels like I am on fire. She is burning me by just looking at me. Is this what she feels when I stare at her? I am starting to sweat. I push my blonde bangs out of my eyes so I can stare harder. I know at this point I am probably the worlds biggest creeper, but I just can't tear my eyes away. The song is almost over, and if you don't know it, this is a pretty fucking long song. We've been locked in some surreal visual Mexican standoff for over five minutes now. The song is ending. This, whatever this is, is about to end. She is going to disappear behind that stupid fucking box again, and I am going to have to wait until next week to see her. Argh.

Wait, what's this? She just popped back out from behind the stupid fucking box. This is new. I hear Effy chuckle again behind me. I am stupefied by this unusual turn of events as I watch her slide off the stage to the dance floor. I lose her for a minute in the crowd of arm flailing, Robert Smith- Edward Scissorhand looking motherfuckers. Damn, she is short. She doesn't look that short up on that stupid fucking box. Flash of Red. Am I actually TRACKING her? Oy, I need to find a new hobby. Get back into painting. I have tons of red paint. Wait. There she is. She is tiny, huh? Cute. I lost her again somewhere to my left. I hear Effy mumble something about "incoming...uh oh..." and wonder what the fuck she is on about. Two tiny pale hands- attached to arms I have been watching for weeks- shoot out from between two emaciated emo boys making out on the dance floor, grab the front of my shirt and pull me away from the bar. Woah.

"I chose this song for you", is whispered in my ear. Not whispered, husked. She has one of those smokers voices that sound sexy as fuck. And she is talking to me, no- whispering to me. In my ear. I think I just died.

"I've been wondering if you were ever going to actually talk to me instead of just eye fuck me, but it looks like I am going to have to be the aggressor. My name is Emily, and our friend Effy tells me your name is Naomi", she says. I cannot speak. I actually have lost the ability to talk. I can stand in the same spot, or sit on the same stool rather, and stare at her for weeks, but I cannot form an actual sentence and force it out of my mouth. I look like an idiot. I know I do. My mouth is hanging slightly open; I hope I don't drool. She is looking up at me. Ha, looking up! See! SEE! Oh yeah, she is looking up at me, and for the first time in a very long time I am unbelievable pleased to be looking DOWN. Down into her illuminated brown eyes. Down at her lips, which she just licked by the way. I wonder again if our piercings will get caught if we kiss. Just then she lets go of the front of my shirt and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me to her. Pulling me down. Down to her lips. I lick her bottom lip and bite at it, probably a lot harder than I should have. Now who is the aggressive one, huh? I think about the fact that I still have yet to actually say anything to her, but can't bring myself to really care because- right now...right now her mouth is on mine. Her hot tongue is sliding against mine. Her teeth are nipping, tugging on my lip rings. Oh Jesus. Don't worry. I didn't say that out loud. I haven't said anything yet, although I am fairly certain that I just moaned. I MADE A SOUND! Yay me! I am not a mute. Well, I guess you couldn't really tell that by just a moan, but..you know. Back to the kissing. Private moment here folks, please disperse.

After several minutes of kissing that made my head spin, I finally did manage to actually say something to her, "Excellent song. It's one of my favorites. It's very...truthful".

And in case you were wondering, our piercings didn't get caught. Any of them. And we found out that we both had several more hidden ones.

Ah, me and my love of piercings. It's a sickness, I know. I know. You can't help whatcha like.

Thank you again. I will be stalking your stories. You can count on it.

3,

Martina


End file.
